Celestial Fever
by Spinesless
Summary: Kirk catches a non-deadly virus, but is allergic to the cure (naturally). He has to tough it out in sickbay, but the fever is bad, and the symptoms are worse. His crew tries to make him as comfortable as possible.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek. T for swearing.**

* * *

He's quiet as the shift comes to the end.

He was quiet during the shift itself, cracking no jokes, not engaging in any banter with anyone. His bridge crew had noticed his prolonged silence, how his voice was low when he did speak. They had exchanged glances and small gestures and pointed frowns with each other but no one said anything to him. They've been flying for a while, they know better. There's a distant look in his red-rimmed, glazed-over eyes and he's paler, paler that he ought to be, though months in space does little for one's complexion.

The shift ends and he does not linger, he is out of the chair and into the lift before anyone else can move, before anyone can approach him and ask if he's alright. They exchange their glances and looks and their frowns, but this is _Kirk_. He'd shrug off their concern with the quirk of a smile and a few words–– "Me? I'm fine. They need me in engineering, I gotta go," ––And then he'd be gone.

* * *

Kirk is late for his next shift.

Ten minutes pass, then fifteen. At the twenty-three minute mark, Commander Spock leaves the bridge. In the lift, he lingers, briefly, wondering if he should go directly to Kirk's quarters. The moment passes and he heads, instead, to the medical bay.

The moment he steps through the threshold, he hears "Spock!" uttered by a none too pleased Doctor McCoy. "What can I help you with?"

Spock inclines his head slightly as McCoy approaches, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, drying his hands on a crumpled cloth. "It pertains to the Captain, Doctor."

McCoy sighs exaggeratedly. When is it ever _not_ about their damned Captain? "What's he done this time."

Spock's eyebrow quirks slightly. "The Captain is over twenty minutes late for his bridge shift. Excessive tardiness is most uncustomary of him."

"So? What do you want me to do? Comm him. Oh, let me guess, he's not answering."

"The last time I saw him, Jim appeared very––" Spock searches for a word. "Drawn."

It's McCoy's time to arch a brow. "You think he's sick," he prompts.

Spock inclines his head again. "Affirmative."

McCoy is frowning and the cloth is bunched in his grip and he thinks _damn it, damn it, damn it all to hell_. He sighs. "Fine," he says, scowling, "I'll go pull his lazy ass out of bed since the rest of you are too chicken to do it." He brushes past Spock, grumbling under his breath.

* * *

"Jim? Come on, darlin', rise and shine." McCoy pummels his fist against the door to the Captain's quarters, voice raised. "Jim?" He bangs again.

When there's no response, he sighs and shakes his head and punches the medical override code into the doorlock. The door slides open, a little peeved at the unwarranted abuse.

Inside, the front room is dark. "Lights, sixty percent," McCoy barks. "Jim? C'mon, time to do your job like the rest of us."

There's again no answer and McCoy feels unease pool in his gut. Kirk may not be a light sleeper, but he's not _that_ heavy of a sleeper, either, always rising when he's needed, if a bit groggy at times.

Bones pushes open the door to the bedroom. "Jim?"

His captain lies on the bed, back to the door. He's curled in on himself, shirt riding up his back. There's a pillow at McCoy's feet, void of a cover. The bedspread is thrown across the room, sheets holding onto the mattress by one single corner, pooling on the floor. Kirk is shaking.

McCoy swears, cursing himself for not bringing the damn tricorder. He crosses the room and lays a hand on Kirk's upper arm and pulls back in surprise; his skin is _hot_. "Jim? Can you hear me?" He raises a hand to turn him over.

"Spock?"

Kirk's voice is small and rough and Bones recoils again. Jim turns on his own, eyes narrow and blurred, but open.

"...No, Jimmy, it's me. It's Bones." God, how he had once loathed that nickname.

"Bones?"

"Damn it, Jim, why don't you ever _say_ anything, when you're? You're only goddamn _human_."

"––wasn't that bad––"

"No, no, it never is, never _starts out_ bad. Then, before you know it, your brain is leaking out of your ears and your kidneys detach and end up nestled comfy next to your lungs. What have I told you? About space?"

"diseasedangerdarknesssilence"

* * *

"Damn right." Bones sighs. It seems that's all he's been doing, nowadays. "D'you think you can walk? Or do I have to call for a gurney? I can't carry you." I _won't_ carry you.

Kirk inwardly blanches at the word "gurney". He groans loudly and scrubs his hand across his face. Someone is clearly beating against his skull and he does _not_ appreciate it, not one bit.

He _aches_, like something tried its hardest to pull him limbs from their sockets and then drove a truck over him and _then_ forced him to run five miles. In the rain.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he pulls himself into an upright position. He blinks rapidly at the change in altitude, leaning against the headboard. With McCoy's help, he manages to his feet. "God," he says. "_God_. This sucks." He doesn't see McCoy roll his eyes.

"C'mon, princess, let's get you checked out."

Kirk leans heavily on Bones as they make their way down the hallway and to the lift. While they wait, Bones takes the opportunity to press the back of his hand against Jim's forehead. A crude method, as the skin-to-skin test really only ever results in "Yup, that's a fever," if one is particularly warm, or "Uhh, I'm not sure," if one is anything but lava. And Kirk was lava.

There's surprise in McCoy's voice. "You're burnin' up, Jim. When did this start?" He hauls Kirk's ass into the lift.

Kirk blinks in the light. "Yesterday? Not, uh, not the fever. That came after alpha. Uh. Bones?"

The doors to the floor have opened. "Yeah, Jim, what is it?"

"I can't see." He's lightyears away. "Bones, I can't see."

McCoy swears. Kirk's legs give out and he sags suddenly against the doctor. The unexpected weight brings both of them down and the two are splayed there on the floor of the lift.

"Jim? Jim! Come on, damn it." McCoy pulls Kirk's eyelids back and runs his knuckles over his sternum. When Jim flinches, McCoy let's out a breath. He scrambles to his feet and into the hallway. "_I need some help in here!"_

* * *

to be continued

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for reading! Feedback is much appreciated! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek. T for swearing. **

* * *

He has to fight to wake up.

Because he can feel it, he can feel consciousness near him but it's always slightly out of reach, like the surface of the ocean under which he has just been plunged. He feels as if someone has removed his organs and replaced them with leaden replacements and perhaps that is what keeps him down, that is what keeps him from breaking the surface.

But he is Jim Kirk and he doesn't let a little bought of unconsciousness displace him. He feels for an opening and lets the distant sound of voices ground him and he fights, kicking against the force that holds him back. The veil starts to thin and he opens his eyes but his mind hasn't caught up yet and something grabs his ankle and brings him down again.

There is no water in his lungs.

The next time, he lets water recede off him in laps and waves like he's sprawled against the beach, deposited ashore by disgruntled tides. He feels his body, his arms, his legs, his torso, all covered by light fabric. His head is foggy, like there's water sloshing around his skull but at least whatever was drumming there before has ebbed slightly. He opens his eyes to light.

It's not the sun, reflecting off fine sands. He blinks several times to reveal a light fixture on the ceiling and, going by his blanketed state and the events leading up to his unconsciousness, Kirk deduces he's in the sick bay. _Uggghhh._

He lifts a hand that feels way too heavy and drags it across his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He inhales to call for Bones but the breath gets stuck and he chokes on it. His wet coughs echo loudly throughout the bay and he wonders if he really has washed ashore, if he's half drowned and he wonders if he'll start coughing up water soon. He becomes lightheaded and he starts to panic because he doesn't _want_ to drown, not again and Bones, Bones, where is––

"Damn it, kid, _breathe_."

He does what he is told, taking deep breaths that shudder in his chest. When he is calm and the room has stopped spinning, he screws his eyes shut and groans.

"_Boooooones_."

"What."

"I'm _dyiiiiinnnggggg_."

Bones takes his gaze from his PADD and narrows his eyes at Kirk. "Don't be so melodramatic." There's an edge to his voice Kirk doesn't notice.

"It _feels_ like I'm dying. What the hell is wrong with me and why haven't you fixed it yet?" he whines. He shoves himself up into a sitting position and leans against his pillow, eyes closed. He could do with another, say, three pillows.

Bones fights the urge to roll his eyes. "You've picked up a nasty strand of the Caelum virus, probably on shore leave last week––yeah, yeah, I know, _I _was the one who suggested you take leave in the first place, don't get me started."

"'Caelum virus'?" Kirk stumbles over the word. It's Latin. Probably.

"Yeah. I've been reading up on it; the natives call it the Devil's cold; it's like the flu on steroids."

Great. "There's a cure, I presume."

"Sorry kid, no can do. You're allergic, and highly. You'd probably die from the reaction." Cheery.

Kirk's eyes shoot open. "You're fucking kidding me." A glance at McCoy says he's not. "So what the hell am I supposed to do, then? I have a ship to fly."

"What are _you_ gonna do? You're gonna stay in bed and let your immune system fight it off, twenty-first century style, and I'll treat the symptoms the best I can. Oh, don't look at me like that. The virus is only deadly to those with compromised immune systems, like babies and the elderly and though you may _act _like an infant, you'll be fine in a few days. I've ordered for a ship-wide vaccination, though, I don't want you infectin' anyone else. The last thing we need is a damn epidemic aboard this ship." Space. Disease and danger, wrapped up in darkness and silence.

Bones always talks an awful lot. "Bones, you talk a lot."

An exasperated sigh. "I mean it, Jim, you _fainted_ in the elevator. Just because the disease isn't deadly doesn't mean it's not serious. The last thing either of us need is you developing pneumonia, or bronchitis."

"Or Andorian shingles."

"_Or _Andorian shingles."

"And––hey, I did not _faint_, I... collapsed valiantly."

Bones raises both his eyebrows. "Okay, kid, whatever you say. You're still staying here until I clear you fit for duty." He taps something on his PADD and turns to leave.

After him, Kirk calls, "Can I at least stay in my own quarters?!"

"Fainted in the elevator!"

Kirk sulks.

* * *

Everything is worse at night.

It's a scientifically proven fact. Well. Maybe not scientifically proven, but it's a fact ever Terran has learned since they were little: fear of night, of darkness, it has to do with our biology. To fear what's _in_ the darkness. Because the world changes at night, when the sun goes away. Everything takes on an eerie sheen, everything slightly more menacing. There's an ingrained sense to just get through the night because, come daybreak, everything will be better.

In space, it's no different.

Aboard the _Enterprise, _there isn't day and night, not in the traditional sense, of course, but there's a night cycle and a day cycle, there's alpha-beta-gamma shifts, there's zero-hundred hours until twenty-three hundred hours. In their bastardized version of nighttime, the lights are lower, fewer people are on shift and the ship hums sleepily. The body, engrained with a lifetime of knowing to be wary of the night does so, even in space. Especially in space.

Kirk's condition has somewhat plateaued, fever sticking stubbornly at 38.7 degrees, and for the most part, he is simply bored. Achy, but bored. He spends the rest of the afternoon doing overdue paperwork on a PADD he nicked from some passing nurse. He picks at his food and sips water and mopes and sighs a lot.

And then night falls, as it does.

Bones tells him to sleep and as his headache's returned and he's been getting foggier and foggier for the last few hours, he does, of his own accord, without the administration of a hypo containing some suspicious sedative. He closes his eyes and falls asleep.

Kirk awakes, suddenly, without reason, a few hours later.

The med bay has emptied somewhat, the lights are low and Kirk realizes with a jolt that he's absolutely _freezing_. He shivers, drawing the thin blanket tight around his body, and rolls onto his side. He stares at a tile on the floor and it feels like his head is filling up with water. He doesn't need this. He doesn't want to swim. He spent his childhood in _Iowa, _for christssake. Well. He spent _part _of his childhood in Iowa. He doesn't talk about the other part.

God. Why does Bones keep this place so cold, anyway? Colder then freaking Delta Vega in here. Christ.

Kirk shivers persistently. He closes his eyes and he opens them and the icy surface of the "class-M" planet stirs in front of him. Wind whips ice at his face and he feels like he's being sandblasted by _snow_. It's cold and he's got no coat, no blanket, no refuge. Fuck Spock for marooning him on this planet. _Fuck_ Delta Vega, too. He's gonna die on this planet.

He closes his eyes again and when he opens them, an hour has passed and he's back in the med bay. No fair, he thinks. He doesn't even remember falling asleep.

He feels waterlogged, and cold. "Bones." The word comes out as a hoarse whisper but he doesn't have the energy to repeat himself. He reaches for the cup of water by his bed as more chills wrack his body. He knocks over the cup. He moans––no, he _keens_. _Fuck _theCaelum virus, or whatever's doing this to him.

"Captain Kirk?" A nurse appears in his line of sight. She's pretty. He hasn't met her before. No, he has to have. Her voice is familiar. "Is there anything I can get you?"

"_Cold_," he sputters. "It's s-s-so c-cold."

She frowns and checks the screen above the bed and her frown deepens and Kirk half-wonders what she looks like smiling. He wonders what Bones looks like smiling. He's had to have seen Bones smile before.

"Your fever has risen," she says. "I'll get you a reducer, and some blankets." She gives him a small smile. So that's what she looks like.

Kirk has remembered the first time he had seen Bones smile, not a sarcastic smile, either. It was probably three weeks into their Starfleet Academy careers, they were rooming together, and Bones had gotten a video comm. Kirk walked into the room right as a bright voice said, "Daddy!" and from the doorway Kirk watched Bones' face _melt_, soften up just like ice cream, and he had said, "Hey, Jo," and put on the happiest smile Kirk had ever seen him wear. It was also the saddest smile Kirk had seen him don, up until that moment. Kirk left the room as quietly as he came. The smile was not for him.

He's thinking about this when the nameless Nurse returns, a hypo sitting on top of a short stack of blankets that look blissfully thicker than whatever piece of shit he's wrapped up in.

She administers the hypo gently––who knew such a thing could happen––and leaves him with the blankets, which he burritos himself up in. He murmurs a breathless "thank you" as he closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

He opens them two hours later and somehow he's ended up on Vulcan. Which is strange, because he watched Vulcan collapse on itself. He tentatively wonders if he _is _on Vulcan. Everything is red sands and desert and he knows Vulcan is significantly hotter than Earth but he wonders if it's _this_ hot.

No, it can't be Vulcan; the temperature is closer to the surface of the sun. He's already soaked through with sweat. It's like the antithesis to Delta Vega. God. Why is he here? Did Spock maroon him here too? Pointy-eared bastard. His blood feels like it's boiling, like he's being cooked from the inside out. He doesn't know which is worse, being a human popsicle, or human lava. Both suck.

He opens his eyes for a half-minute and kicks the blankets off, not caring where they land. He groans, involuntarily, and rolls over, trying to cool down, trying to stop the burning under his skin. This sucks. God this sucks.

Kirk falls into an uneasy sleep between stages of half-frozen and half-liquefied for a few hours, solidly asleep until zero eight-hundred hours, when voices grab him and pull him from sleep.

This wakefulness is strange, though. He's present, somewhat, but still submerged. He sputters on the water that falls into his gaping mouth.

"––was he last night?"

"––kept fluctuating, I gave him doses of––"

"––work? Strange, it––"

"––times, well––"

He gasps, like a beaches fish. "_Bones_."

"I'm here, kid." Kirk hears him but doesn't see him. "Rough night?"

He grits his teeth. "Fuck this."

"Yeah, sorry." He sounds genuine. "The onset of Caelum is faster than your average virus. It lays dormant for about a week, then hits suddenly. Your temperature is at 38.8 degrees and wont budge. Nurse Singh said you responded to acetaminophen well enough when you peaked at 39.4."

"You know, I was never good with Celsius."

Kirk hears a muttered "unbelievable" and he almost smiles. "Well," Bones says, slowly. "You're at about 101.9 _now, _and reached about 103 last night."

"Fevers suck. This sucks." Make me better please Bones make me better.

"I know, kid, I know. Hang in there."

Bones leaves, because, shockingly enough, there are other people aboard this ship besides James T. Kirk, and some of them need medical attention too.

Kirk frowns heavily and draws the blankets around him. He blinks at the ceiling and his frown deepens because he still feels like shit. Like utter and complete shit. He thought that things were supposed to get better during the day, even if the day was only symbolic.

Apparently, the Caelum virus just does not give a fuck.

* * *

to be continued

* * *

**A/N: holy shit it's like almost 5 AM. why do i do this to myself ugh**

**anyway. this chapter is longer. i do not know how many chapters this fic will be because this is a highly indulgent story but it will probably not be 50,000 words about kirk fighting off the common cold. probably not. we'll see. there is a lot of dialogue in this chapter. im not used to dialogue, so i hope it is in character. next chapter will have kirk talk to someone who isn't bones (like spock. we all like spock. im so sorry it's 5 am why am i still talking) **

**anyway. the response on the first chapter was really incredible and i thank everyone who took the time to read and comment, i really appreciate the feedback. **

**thank you so much for reading, and feedback is very much appreciated. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek. T for swearing.**

* * *

Kirk sleeps most of the day.

By sleeping, or sometimes merely _pretending_ to sleep, he avoids unwanted interactions with any of his crew who dare to come down and see how he's doing. He doesn't like people cooing over him, doesn't like them fussing, or anything. He likes attention, sure, but more in a "look at me, look what I can do and you can't" sort of way. He doesn't want people to feel sorry for him.

He hates this, this _weakness_, this pure _humanity_ making him suffer. He didn't fall and hurt himself, or get attacked, or anything. He's sick because his body has failed to protect him and it _sucks_, because he's supposed to be strong, unwavering. He's supposed to be James T. Kirk, captain of the _USS Enterprise_––Starfleet's _youngest_ ever captain, mind you––defeater of angry Romulans, evil Starfleet Admirals, and super-humans hellbent on revenge.

He's been reduced to collapsing, however valiantly, in elevators, and lying in bed, practically _bleating_. It's degrading. It's humiliating to have anyone see him like this, for either parties. It's why he bolted from the bridge yesterday, before anyone could approach him.

He also sleeps because when he's awake his head pounds and his body absolutely _aches_, even though he's just been lying here for less than two days. He had a rough night, too: he's earned the sleep, so he takes it.

"Bones," he barks at the CMO during one of his periods of wakefulness. "If this disease is contagious enough for you to vaccinate my whole damn crew, why did no one else catch it?"

"Oh, they did," Bones answers to Kirk's surprise. "Five ensigns and a Lieutenant Ortiz."

Kirk strains his neck to survey the rest of the beds; they're empty. "Where the hell are they?"

"_They're_ not deathly allergic to the cure."

"Bones!"

The doctor offers a half smirk. "Just take it easy for a while. Despite its lengthy incubation period, Caelum moves through the body pretty quickly, compared the regular flu. You were admitted yesterday; _relax_."

"Can I at least go back to my own quarters?"

"Jim, I need to keep an eye on you. If you feel better in a day or two then _maybe_. Hang in there, darlin'_._"

Kirk makes a face when Bones turns his back.

"I saw that."

"Liar."

* * *

At eighteen-hundred hours, Kirk is sitting, propped up by several pillows, idly stirring replicated broth or some sort. He's barely eaten any of it. The mere _idea_ of eating anything makes his stomach turn, but Bones has threatened to force feed him if he doesn't do it himself. The doctor took away his stolen PADD, too, so he's bored as hell. Bastard.

He sighs at the bowl and looks up and is startled by the sudden appearance of his second-in-command standing a metre away.

Kirk cracks a smile, but he's suddenly self conscious, shifting under his blankets. "Hey, Spock," he says. "How's my ship?"

"All departments are running smoothly, Captain."

Kirk's smile widens. "Good." As if he expected everything to go to shit the second he stepped of the bridge. "Why don't you, ah, pull up a seat?"

Spock procures a chair and sits by Kirk's side, posture still rigid as always. "I wondered if you would be well enough to partake in a game of chess, Captain."

They had played before. Kirk was absolutely _gleeful_ the first time Spock had asked him to play, and Spock had thoroughly kicked his ass. The second time they played he beat Spock, fair as anything, but not easily. They made complimentary opponents.

"I'd love too, but I don't think Bones'll be too happy."

"I have been reliably informed that Doctor McCoy is currently eating in the mess hall."

Kirk's lip quirks. "Let's have it, then."

They move the holographic pieces across the board at an even rate. Kirk longs for his old board. It was really retro, with pieces hand-carved. The pieces were heavy, but substantial in his grip. He briefly wonders where he left it, if it was safe, but quickly remembers it's in a safe deposit box on earth. He learned that pieces were once made of animal bone, if you can believe.

His reverie is interrupted by a sharp coughing fit. He coughs heavily into his fist and waits for it to pass, praying that his cheeks aren't burning. Spock looks unperturbed. Kirk clears his throat and moves his piece. "Did you ever have any childhood illnesses, Spock?"

The Vulcan's gaze flicks from the board to meet Kirk's eyes. "I was and am susceptible to both Human and Vulcan illnesses, Captain." He moves his piece. "In fact I contracted the Caelum virus when I first came to Starfleet."

"Yeah, but you're not allergic to the cure, are you."

"Affirmative; I am not."

"I always seem to get the short end of the stick." There is no humor in Kirk's smile.

He is hit by another coughing fit, this one lasting longer than the previous one. A crease appears on Spock's forehead. "Captain, if you are feeling unwell, we may continue our game at a later point––"

"No, Spock, that won't be necessary; I'm fine."

Spock's eyebrow quirks. He can tell Kirk is several parsecs away from fine, but doesn't say anything.

Fine isn't really on the map for Kirk. He's been feeling shittier ever since Bones tried to make him eat, the coughing has only accentuated his headache, and light chills have set in. He groans inwardly. Spock is the only person he's talked to all day, besides Bones. And, well, yeah, that is mostly his fault, but he's starting to think he likes being alone even less than he does having people pity him.

"Does it feel, ah, colder, in here, to you?" The chills have increased. Fuck fuck fuck fuck, he was _fine _all day––well not 'fine' per se but _stable_ at least, unchanging, not getting worse. "Never mind, let's continue our game," Kirk says. Spock looks at him, frowning, but Kirk brushes him off with a wave of his hand and stares at the board, but he can't focus now.

"Captain, perhaps I should contact Doctor McCoy."

"Fuck, why is it so _cold––_" He's sweating. He can feel himself sweating even as he's wracked with chills. Fuck. _Fuck_. Is that supposed to happen? This doesn't feel like the flu; this doesn't even feel like the flu on steroids. This is sudden and weird and Kirk doesn't like it, not one bit.

"The doctor is on his way." Spock flips his communicator shut. Bastard.

"Snitch."

"Your well being is critical to the maintenance of the ship," he chides. Stop being such a baby. The holographic chessboard is put away. Spock rises from the seat but doesn't made a move to leave. Several moments later, Bones comes hurrying in.

"I can't leave you alone for twenty minutes, can I?" he snaps, waving his tricorder over Kirk's shuddering form.

"Bones," he gasps. "I'm dying."

Bones frowns at the readings. "You're not quite dying, but your fever is high. _Really_ high. When did this start?" The last bit he says to Spock.

"The Captain started displaying obvious discomforts only minutes before I contacted you, Doctor."

On the bed, Kirk has stopped shivering. He frowns, then lurches up. Over the side of the bed, he vomits what little he had eaten that and the previous day. "_Bones_!" His voice is hoarse and scared.

"I know kid, one second!" He's talking to a nurse and holding a hypo. "––No, he's allergic to that one, get me––"

"Doctor." It's Spock.

"––and _hurry, _damn it, his temperature is rising way too damn fast, he needs to cool down before––"

On the bed, Kirk has stopped moving. His blankets are askew and he's staring straight ahead, his eyes half lidded and unseeing. He starts to shake, limbs jerking and convulsing violently, shuddering against the bed. McCoy swears loudly. "He's having a seizure. This is _exactly _what I wanted to avoid. Spock! Turn him on his side. Nurse––_where is my damn hypo?_"

* * *

to be continued

* * *

**A/N: febrile seizures are usually seen with children, i know, but i'm writing fanfiction about idiots in space, i think i can bend reality just a little bit. poor jim! i put him through a lot. oh well. that's not going to stop any time soon.**

**the feedback i have received so far on this is baffling, but incredibly welcome. thank you so much to everyone who has followed, favorited, and reviewed this fic. i'm going through some personal stuff right now, in the so called 'Real World', and seeing all these notifications in my email makes me really happy.**

**thank you so much for reading. i really do appreciate it. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek. T for swearing.**

* * *

He's swimming again.

Well, not quite _swimming_. He's passively being pushed by the ocean, flat on his back but slightly under the surface. He doesn't know if he's grown gills or something but he doesn't feel the tight uncomfort that comes with holding one's breath. He doesn't feel much, really, he's just sort of floating. He embraces the weightlessness, the water gently lapping over him.

He wishes he could stay like this a little longer but he opens his eyes and he sputters, clammy and damp and sweating. Coughs wrack his body and he arches off the bed and there are hands on his forearms, his shoulders. The ceiling of the medical bay spins above him and everything is soft and fuzzy and distant. He coughs up seawater and plunges back under.

* * *

"He had a _seizure_? Holy shit."

"Vhat––vhat is wrong with ze keptin?"

"McCoy mentioned it––Cadmium? Calamine––?"

"_Caelum_, stupid; you should have gone to get your vaccination yesterday."

"Caelum? Ach, tha's a nasty bugger. Best t' stay away until it's cleared."

"You've had it before?"

"Nae, but I've heard stories––outbreaks an' runnin' out of tha' cure, tha' sort."

"Is it––y'know, deadly?"

"Only in the very wee, usually."

A sigh of relief.

"D'you––d'you think McCoy would––"

"––let us see him? Not a chance. I don't think the captain wants to be _seen_, either; he bolted from the bridge, remember."

"Aye, the lad's right. Better to jus' wait for the Captain to recover on his own. I trus' the doctor knows what he's doing."

* * *

He dreams of falling.

After the _Nirada _incident and the John Harrison debacle, he fell through his nightmares almost constantly. The type of fall was sometimes unclear, for upon awaking he was left only with the lingering feeling of impact. He had believed it to be a fall from grace, though he never did thought himself to be the 'fallen angel' type.

After _Nirada,_ he had dreamt of the space jump, of his chute never opening and he would hit the rocky ground of Vulcan again and again, awakening with a shudder where death should have occurred. After Harrison, it was worse.

After Khan, he fell every night for weeks.

At first, he was clinging to the rail with one hand and Scotty's sweaty palm with the other, but in these dreams Chekov didn't grab him as he let go; he toppled downwards, having failed Scott, having failed them all. He was just another body tumbling as the ship twisted around them. Over. And over. Awakening suddenly before collision.

But then, three weeks after, the dreams changed. He was pressed to the floor of the _Enterprise_ as she sped towards the earth, no thrusters, no power (he hadn't had time to realign the core or he had but it wasn't _enough––_), an artificial meteor come crashing home. As she fell, she burned, and he felt her burn. He felt the ship come apart at the seams and come alight. They were a shooting star, set aflame.

He's falling again, as he does, through air. His stomach has bottomed out and his eyes flutter closed and he's. He's okay with this. He doesn't mind he act of falling, it's nice; it's like when he was floating. Falling isn't the problem; the problem is always the landing.

He hits the mattress and he flinches awake with a hoarse gasp that tears through him. "_Bones_."

The hand that graces his cheek is blissfully cool and he turns into the touch, a sigh escaping his lips.

"I'm right here, kid." The doctor's voice is low. "Still trying to bring your fever down."

"Bones." He's freezing and burning at once and his _insides_ hurt, his organs are waging war with each other, they're trying to escape his body. He moans, involuntarily, the sound guttural and Bones' face is lined with concern and his own exhaustion.

"I'm here, Jim, I'm not goin' anywhere." With his other hand, Bones removes a hypo from his pocket. "Just sleep, Jim." He presses it against Kirk's neck and Kirk instantly goes slack, his fingers unfurling from the chokehold grip on the bedding, his face, previously scrunched in pain, softening.

* * *

"What is the Captain's condition, Doctor?"

A heavy sigh and the sound of running water. "His temperature is at 39 and dropping, so he's responding to the medication fairly well. He's miserable; keeps waking up. Hopefully it'll be a little better in the morning."

"Perhaps you should try getting some sleep as well, Doctor."

McCoy waves him off. "I was going to take the second shift anyway."

Spock inclines his head respectably. "If you insist."

* * *

He wakes up crying but he doesn't know if the tears are from pain or sadness or if it's just the illness taking it's toll on his body, playing with his bodily functions like he's a toy. He wakes up crying and he rolls onto his back but Bones isn't there _Bones isn't there_ but there's a figure at the foot of his bed clad in blue and he sniffs loudly, "Bones?" but the figure doesn't move. He's far too still to be Bones, far too stiff-backed and if it _was_ Bones then he would have been at Jim's side the moment he awoke.

"Bones?" His voice is louder and a touch more frightened. Is he seeing things now, awake, and conscious? Are hallucinations a symptom of this fucking virus?

"I am not Doctor McCoy, Jim." The figure at the end of his bed speaks quietly.

"Are you real?" His words slur together. The sheet is wrapped around his wrist. He has to ask. He has to be sure.

The figure steps forward and the overhead light illuminates him and he is Spock. "Yes."

"Spock?" Kirk's confused. "Why are you. Are you. Are you _sure_ you're real? 'M dreams, they. Everything's fuzzy. Sometimes. You're real?"

"I am real, Captain."

"Jim." Spock has stopped within arm's distance from Kirk. Kirk peers up at him with watery eyes, surveying him a moment before deciding that he is, in fact, Spock, and not a figment of his imagination. He lets his eyes slide shut.

Spock turns to leave.

"_Wait_." He freezes. Kirk's eyes have opened, just barely. "Don't. Don't go. Please."

Spock opens his hand. "I won't, Jim."

* * *

to be continued

* * *

**A/N: oh my goodness the response to the last chapter was just. incredible and unexpected, to say the least. thank you so much to everyone who reviewed or followed or favorited. gosh. GOSH**

**okay this fic has like. one or two more chapters left i think? kirk starts to recover in the next one, so there's that! **

**i think i'm starting to get sick though. i swear to god (it's karma i can feel it) **

**it's 3 AM oh god okay um. ****thank you for reading!** feedback is welcome and appreciated!**  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek. T for swearing.**

* * *

Bones scrubs a hand across his face, trying to clear the exhaustion from his eyes. He doesn't normally take two shifts in a row unless there's an emergency or he's performing major surgery, ergo, unless he _has_ to. He's human, for god's sake. He runs off food, and sleep, and what little sanity he has maintained, up in the endless vacuum of space.

But even if Jim's condition hadn't gone downhill as fast as it had, if he hadn't started thrashing and seizing and crying out in the night, and even if his temperature _hadn't_ shot straight into Dangerous Territory, Bones would have still taken the second shift anyway. Jim doesn't deserve to suffer alone, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how he buries himself in a blanket and forces sleep to avoid his crew and shrugs off hands on his shoulders and skulks off to lick his wounds. Bones knows he doesn't really do it on purpose. Growing up from a broken childhood, people form habits. Since they've met, it seems, Bones has been gently trying to rid Jim of those habits.

Also, the Caelum virus is, like, really awful. There's no way in hell Bones was going to leave Jim alone. Nah. They're stuck together, whether either of them like it or not.

He's coming back to the sickbay after getting a quick meal in the mess because no matter how much you twist it, double shifts still suck. It's towards the end of it, however; he's planning on checking Jim's vitals a few more times and administering a hypo he may or may not need and lingering unnecessarily until he decides to head to his quarters before the third shift starts. God, he needs some sleep.

Bones steps just inside the sliding doors and his eyes immediately go to the last bed on the right. He sees Jim's blanketed form, his back facing him, and he sees Spock, still sitting quietly at his side. A slight crease forms on his brow as he approaches the bed. He nods to Spock who barely raises an eyebrow. "Commander."

"Doctor."

His eyes skirt over Jim's vitals. Things are looking better. His temperature is down to 38 degrees, _finally. _Having that little number at 41 was somewhat terrifying. Seeing Jim fucking _seize _was even worse.

McCoy turns to Spock who's looking up at him expectantly. "His temperature's at 38 an' I'm in no mood to try and bring it down any lower, 'least, not right now. I don't want him ODing on fever reducers. If it starts to climb again, well," McCoy runs a hand through his hair. "I'll think of something. It shouldn't, though; the fever ought to taper off soon enough. How's he been?"

"The captain has remained sleeping."

Bones nods once. "Yeah, good. He needs it."

Spock looks at him. "As do you, Doctor." This is the second time Spock has pestered him to sleep. McCoy waves him off.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm goin'." Pushy Vulcan. "Let me know if anything _catastrophic_ happens." He spares another surveying glance at his friend/brother/patient and his eyes linger over a pair of loosely held hands. McCoy swallows but doesn't say anything, he leaves the medical bay in search of some lost sleep.

* * *

He wakes up and his body no longer feels like it's at war with itself.

His eyes sort of open before he has time to figure himself out; the world tilts with his disorientation and he tries to situate himself.

He's not overly freezing or overly hot, a bit warm from the blanket wrapped around him but not uncomfortably so. His head is still somewhat stuffy, somewhat waterlogged but he no longer feels half-drowned. He blinks groggily in the light of the medical bay. His body feels heavy, something he associates with the act of sleeping for too long, usually after a full night out or being hit by one of Bones' sedatives.

He turns his head a bit and a face comes into focus and it is Spock. Jim feels something brush against his fingers but he doesn't know what it is, he sees Spock sit up a little straighter and he swallows and cracks a half smile. "Hey, Spock."

"Hello, Jim." Spock says. "Is there anything you require?"

"Some water would be really great."

Spock helps Jim shimmy into an elevated position. He's not quite sitting straight up, he's like, sixty degrees as opposed to ninety. Once he's settled upright and adjusted to the altitude change, Spock hands him a cup with water in it. Jim takes a few grateful sips and tries to ignore the shaking in his fingers. He hands back the empty cup and takes stock of himself.

He feels better, feels a hell of a lot better than yesterday and the brief moments where he was conscious and aware last night. He doesn't remember too much, just that he had been talking to Spock and then there had been _pain_ and Bones was there, too. He lost a lot of time. There are flashes, he remembers, here and there, but he doesn't know how much is real or how much is fever dreams.

There's no pain right now, just clouds and cotton, his muscles are a bit sore and his head hurts, just a touch, but that goes along with the stuffiness between his ears. He's dazed but aware, and _weak_. Oh, fuck, he's weak. He feels that his energy resources are drained almost completely, he's worn out like he's ran for miles or like he's been working for too long on too little sleep. God, this is a shitty feeling. He swallows around the knot in his throat.

He's okay, though. That's what matters, right? That he's okay. Maybe he can get out of here soon.

"Captain?"

Jim blinks and schools his face into a less pitiful expression. "Where's Bones?" He does not comment on Spock's use of 'captain'.

"Doctor McCoy is in his quarters, sleeping. Would you like me to rouse him?"

A frown. "No, let Bones sleep. What––What time is it?"

"It is just after eleven hundred hours."

Kirk rubs his eyes. "Well, shit." He's been asleep for a while.

Spock cocks an eyebrow. "How do you feel today, Jim?" he asks carefully.

"Better," he admits. "Well I mean. Anything is better than yesterday. But I'm feeling––not _good_, exactly, but a hell of a lot better. What, ah, happened yesterday? Did I, um," He lowers his voice. "...pass out again?" Pass out. Faint. Collapse valiantly. Etc.

Spock stares at him evenly. Jim shifts uncomfortably.

"You experienced a febrile seizure after your temperature rose too quickly. It took several hours to lower to a safe point."

"Hold the fuck up––I had a _seizure? _Like––like a _seizure_?"

Spock nods. Holy shit.

Holy _shit_.

Kirk presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. "I don't––God, I don't even remember. Holy shit." He looks at Spock, a faint smile pulling at his lips. "This Caelum shit really sucks, doesn't it."

"Doctor McCoy is confident the worst of the disease has passed."

Kirk snorts. "Yeah, it fucking better've." Shit's starting to take its toll.

Spock scrutinizes Kirk for a moment longer. "Captain, if you are feeling better, will you excuse me…?" Got a friggin ship to run. He lets the sentence hang.

"Oh, yeah, god, sure. You have better things to do than babysit a sick captain. Take care of my ship, Spock." The last sentence is spoken with as much authority as Kirk can muster up sitting in a biobed. Spock inclines his head respectably and rises to exit the medical bay.

"Captain," he says, turning back.

"Yeah?"

For a brief moment, Spock looks like he forgot what he wanted to say. Kirk almost smiles. "I wish for your rapid recovery."

"Thanks, Spock." Me too. He watches his second in command nod and turn his back and leave him alone.

* * *

"Hey, Jim?"

When Bones finds him, Kirk is dozing. A light doze, because he slept, like, roughly fifteen hours, or something, the night before. Bones himself looks well rested and Jim's face breaks into a grin when he sees him. "Hey, Bones."

"You look better."

"I _feel _better. Like, a lot better. Like, please-release-me-from-this-prison, better."

Bones rolls his eyes and he checks over Kirk's vitals. "I dunno if Spock mentioned it, but you had a seizure last night, Jim." His tone is serious.

Jim frowns. He bunches his still-trembling hands into the blanket. "Yeah, uh. He mentioned it."

"Well." Bones looks up. "Your temperature is down to 37.5––"

"English!"

"_99.5 degrees Fahrenheit_. Your fever has officially broken. You're still running a little warm, but––"

"_Boooones_. Come _on_. I'll be fine."

Bones glares at him. "Let's get some food into you, and then maybe_––maybe_ I'll release you to your quarters."

Kirk could do a goddamn victory dance, right there, right in the middle of the sick bay. He eats everything Bones puts in front of him without complaint, and to be honest, he's happy to. He feels instantly better with actual, physical food inside of him.

"Okay," he says a little while later. "I'm done. I've been good. Can I _please_ get out of here now?" He's itchin'.

Bones frowns and sighs and huffs. "Okay, Jim," he says, "I'll release you back to your quarters. You're off duty for the next, we'll say, four or five days––"

"You're _shitting_ me."

Bones lifts his eyes from his PADD and Kirk immediately regrets saying anything. "Listen here, you little shit," he seems to say. "Your fever reached 106 degrees and you had a fucking seizure less than twenty-four hours ago. You shouldn't be going _anywhere_ but I am allowing you to recover in your quarters because you're a goddamn pain in my ass. If your temperature rises anymore, any _fraction _of a degree, or if you overexert yourself, you're coming right back here. Do I make my self clear?"

Kirk swallows. "Yes, Doctor McCoy, loud and clear."

"Good. Now get up."

Jim's first few steps are shaky (god he's so weak) but Bones is there, ready to steady him if he falters. He doesn't offer a hover chair or gurney because he knows Kirk'll immediately reject it.

He firmly holds his upper arm and tows him to the turbo lift, smirking as they enter. "Let's try and not––what's the phrase––_collapse valiantly_ this time, shall we?"

The look Kirk shoots him is _cold_. Sweat drips down his back with the strain of just walking, but he's determined not to show weakness. He will not make McCoy regret sending him back to his quarters. He promises.

They reach his room and Kirk sighs silently in contentment. He falls onto the bed that is at least seventeen times more comfortable than the planks of wood they try to pass off as biobeds. His PADD's already on the bedside table and everything.

Before McCoy leaves, he lifts Kirk's shirt, ignoring sounds of protest, and presses a sensor forcefully onto his shoulder. "Do not remove this," he says firmly. "It allows me to monitor your vitals. Do _not_," he repeats. "Remove this."

Jim nods. "Gotcha."

"Alright. Get some rest, darlin'. I know it feels like you've been sleeping a lot, but take a nap, do some paperwork, whatever. Don't go running around, you hear? Just take it easy for a few days."

Kirk fights the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, _mom_."

"I'm serious, Jim."

"Yeah, I know you are. Stop hovering, alright? You're making me anxious. I'm _fine_."

McCoy hesitates in the doorway. "I'll see you in a few hours."

"See you in a few hours."

* * *

_a few hours later_

* * *

"Doctor McCoy?"

"Yeah?"

"It's Captain Kirk."

Shit. Of course. "What about him?"

"His temperature has reached 38.5 degrees; his fever is back."

A sigh. Bones knew he shouldn't've let him outta there. God, fuck the Caelum virus. He rifles around the bay for a mild fever reducer, loading it into a hypo that he places securely into his pocket. It's been a couple of hours; Kirk can stand seeing him again.

He opens his mouth to ask the nurse a question when he's cut off by a loud, angry alarm blaring through the bay.

Shit.

_Jim_.

* * *

to be continued

* * *

**A/N: Shit. it's been a while, hasn't it?**

**yeah, sorry. i took an internet & fanfiction break for a little while to focus on some personal matters and to also, like, write some stuff that wasn't fanfiction. i really need to stop taking extended breaks from my stories because i totally lose the feel of them, you know? ****i've been working on this chapter for a while, and i'm still not happy with it, but i decided that the wait has been long enough. **

**the response to this story has been just really incredible. like ? ? ? i don't even know, this started out as a purely indulgent fic that's now like really long? at least hella longer than i intended. i don't know. it means a lot for there to be actual people reading and reacting to the shit that i write. thanks for sticking with it. there should be like? one more chapter? hopefully? where even is this story going**

**who knows.**

**anyway, it's, like, 3 AM (isn't it always) thank you so much for reading and staying with this ridiculous fic. since i'm a bit iffy on this chapter, feedback would be really fantastic.**

**thank you! (again!) **


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